


Your love is like a hurricane

by lapoesieestdanslarue



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, and movie montages, and soft boyfriends :'), basically just tooth-rotting fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-12-08 04:05:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11638551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapoesieestdanslarue/pseuds/lapoesieestdanslarue
Summary: “Is it… Are you and Enjolras....?”“Surprise?”“What. But- How long?”“Three years.”“Three years?!”“Give or take a week and two days,” Enjolras offers.(Or; the secret relationship that was never actually a secret)





	Your love is like a hurricane

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ginogollum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginogollum/gifts).



> Preversly titled; 'what is a title and how do I get one?'
> 
> (The answer- Spotify shuffle, the band Amber Run and their amazing song 'Hurricane')
> 
> Ginogollum, I cannot stress how happy I was when I saw your prompt, and how much genuine joy it brought me while writing, and then the crippling fear that you wouldn't like it. So I hope you _do_ enjoy it, despite it's cheesiness, and that you have a wonderful summer :)

Courfeyrac enters with a flourish, storming up the stairs and flinging open the old and splintered door to the top room of the Musain.

“Combeferre,” he declares to the mostly empty room, save for Enjolras and Combeferre preparing notes at their usual table. “Today is the day. Too long you’ve sat in that seat, looking like a gangly giant next to Enjolras’s nimble pixie-spriet form-”

_“Hey.”_

“Sorry, Enj, but those gym hours haven’t paid off just yet. Anyways- all these years we’ve known each other, and not _once_ have I heard you mention someone. No one. No guy, gal or non-binary pal.”

Enjolras’s eyebrows have been steadily raising, while Combeferre, for the first time Courfeyrac can ever remember, just looks lost. 

“But Courf-”

“C’mon. I know getting into the dating scene is scary. But with me by your side, I promise-”

“No, _Courf-”_

“Just give it a try! What’s the worst that could happen?”

Enjolras has a slowly spreading smile on his face as Combeferre, bewildered, splutters “ _Courf._ I’ve been in a relationship. I _am_ in a relationship _.”_

The colour drains from Courfeyrac face so fast it’s as if he’d seen a ghost. Or more precisely, as if he’d found out that his friend of more than four years is in a relationship and Courfeyrac didn’t know. “You _what_.”

“It’s not like we kept it hidden! I mean, I assumed you all, just, _knew-”_

“How could we have known?!” He exclaims. He turns to look at Enjolras, who’s leaning back in his chair and smiling at Combeferre like the cat who got the cream. “Did you know about this?”

“Well, I-”

“See! Not even Enjolras knew. And god knows you two are inseparable, I mean for the love of all that’s holy you _live_ together and-”

There is a wonderful moment, one that Combeferre knows well from his hours of giving maths grinds down at the local youth centre, when the dawning of understanding is etched upon a student's face. Finally they understand it, the jigsaw comes together, the problem is solved, that one piece that had been irking them suddenly just clicks. 

Looking at Courfeyrac now, stood frozen in the middle of the Musain with his eyes wide open and mouth slightly open, this is that glorious moment. 

“Is it… Are you and _Enjolras....?”_

“Surprise?”

“What. But- How long?”

“Three years.”

_“Three years?!”_

“Give or take a week and two days,” Enjolras offers.

“Three years and a week and two days,” Combeferre amends.

//

They were just a package deal. 

Enjolras and Combeferre, Combeferre and Enjolras. 

It wasn’t like they were co-dependent or glued to each others side but the two of them had a way of drifting within each other’s orbits, floating, floating, floating-

And back together. 

Sometimes this manifested itself in the way that after a bad day Enjolras would make a beeline for Combeferre in the Musain, and they’d spend the hours with heads bent, engrossed in conversation. Sometimes it was the way Combeferre would drop off a coffee for the blonde boy as he passed the arts buildings. Sometimes it was how after an exhausting day, Enjolras would already have dinner already ordered in, all the usual favourites and little quirks (“And one portion of egg fried rice with the massaman but instead of pork could I get lamb?”) that you only really get to know about someone if you know them intimately enough.

Sometimes, it was just the way that they’d fall perfectly and evenly together as they walked side by side. 

So, really, it’s not like it was staring everyone in the face.

(Except it was. It really, really was.)

//

**i.**

“We’ve already received the permit for the march, but it’s a given that we’re still going to be met with considerable resistance. Most likely armed, so we have to stress the _peaceful_ aspect on the social media campaign.” Absentmindedly, Enjolras checks his watch. When he sees it’s already nearing ten, he sighs and blows a stray strand of hair out of his eyeline. “That’s all for today. Sorry you’re all being kept so late, but once this protest is finished we can take a break.”

That gets a cheer that makes way into loud chatter and promises of first rounds.

He turns his head from where he’s standing, looking down to Combeferre sitting in a seat below him. The other man looks back up at him and-

(in retrospect, times like this should have been their first clue. The way they look at each other and the world around them melts, until it’s just them, gazing. Soft smiles on their faces, sometimes none at all, just quiet contemplation etched into the lines of their forehead. It’s times like this, times when they’re drifting between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles in dim Musain light that says more than any grand declaration ever could.) 

\- The moment is pulled from them when there’s a gasp from behind. 

“Your _neck._ ”

Enjolras looks behind him, and Joly is standing, concern twisting his features. “Enjolras, I told you to get checked out after that protest! Now look, you bruise is hemolyzing.”

He blushes, right up to the tips of his ears. (In the seat next to him, Combeferre has the decency to look a bit sheepish, even though he’s smirking throughout the entire exchange.) “Oh, no, Joly-”

“Shit, it might have broken the skin. Okay sit down and let me at least get ice on it.”

“No, Joly, it’s not a-”

“ _Sh.”_

In a rare moment of clarity, Enjolras sees the losing battle ahead of him, and sits down. 

(Then he elbows Combeferre in the ribs when the man beside him won’t stop laughing. It only makes him giggle more, though. It makes him lean in and ask quietly if Enjolras would rather he explain to Joly exactly _how_ he acquired that bruise on his neck. In response Enjolras pushes him away with a roll of the eyes and a _‘No.’_

They miss the soft way Combeferre watches Enjolras take the ice and place it to his neck, the smile that twitches at his lips as Joly lectures the blonde man on proper self-care. 

They missed it _then,_ and looking back with the benefit of hindsight screams it at them in full, living colour.)

**ii.**

Exam season descends upon most students with the familiar sense of dread that settles in the stomach of each pupil.

But for Combeferre, this beast is waiting long before any exam. It sits in his stomach, on his chest, wrapped around his neck, biding its time before it coils, braces, and-

Like a crocodile from murky waters, attacks, clamping it’s icy jaws around his jugular until he’s powerless, helpless to do nothing else but drown under the weight of exam stress. The prospect of failing hangs above Combeferre’s head all year, his very own sword of Damocles. And of course, he knows that his worth isn’t measured by his grade point average, won’t be reflected in a 1:1 from university. He understands, on a deeply fundamental level, how much _more_ humans are then how they’re made to be in any kind of streamed educational facility. 

Except, when those jaws wrap around him and _squeeze,_ the rational thoughts evaporate into white noise. Like tuning a radio until all you get is static. The logical part of him that is telling him to calm down, breath, go easy, is drowned out until all that’s left of him is an anxiety that buzzes so violently within his bones it makes him want to claw his skin off. He’s a shadow of himself, an empty boy filled with a coffee and protein bars, held up by a single string under constant stress and an hour or two of fitful sleep. 

(and it breaks Enjolras’s heart. It really, truly does, to see his best friend, his guide, the most important person in the world, think that he’s not worth anything unless he excels, that he has to carry all this weight alone. But he learned long ago that there’s nothing to be done when Combeferre gets like this. So he shoves something more than just protein bars his way and insists he have a glass of water for every cup of coffee. It kills him, though. Like holding someone’s hand as they lower themselves into a grave.)

Combeferre like this is fragile. A living, breathing house of cards. So it’s not that surprising that even the smallest blow will eviscerate him.

_‘It’s not even that big of a deal,’_ He tells himself as he stares down as the crisp white letter from the university informs him that he failed his symbolic programming module. _‘It’s fine.’_ And it is. He can retake the exam. It’s only worth five credits. It’s not the end of the world. And he was only a few percent off the mark. 

It’s not the end of the world, he’s desperately telling his shaking his hands. So why does it feel like the world is crumbling around him? Why is his heart beating so hard it feels like it’s about to explode out of his chest?

//

Later that night, Feuilly gets a text from Enjolras.

_**5:35pm, 10/6/17** _

**_Hey, Ferre not feeling so hot. Post-exam crash, etc, etc. Won’t be making the party, but if you pass by on the way would you mind picking up whatever Ben and Jerry’s the nearest store has? Ferre’s not picky. Door will be open, let yourself in._ **

**_5:45pm, 10/6/17_ **

**_No probs. Chunky Monkey okay?_ **

**_5:46pm, 10/6/17_ **

**_Perfect. Ty :)_ **

Twenty minutes later Feuilly arrives into the complex, pint of ice-cream in hand. He makes his way up the old, weathered stairs to the second floor, straight down to apartment 27. It’s like a muscle memory, at this point. Enjolras and Combeferre’s apartment is a fixed point for the group- The Musain is closed? That’s fine, the meeting will be held in Enj and Ferre’s place. No food in your fridge and not bothered to eat out? Enjolras and Combeferre can fix you up. Have a bad day? Everyone knows they have the comfiest couch. It’s an unspoken rule that whenever you need you can plop down and Enjolras will stick on whatever obscure film he’s studying this week, and you can sit in silence. Or Ferre will read from whatever bizarre book he’s plowing through, or he’ll tell you all the intricacies of whatever mathematical problem he’s trying to unwind. It’s a liminal space, their apartment. It’s a break from the real world, a place where you can just drift and be safe, and just _be_. It’s a sanctuary. 

Feuilly knocks quietly on the door, a few peeling paint flecks falling off at the impact, and pushes it open. There, on the world’s comfiest couch, is Combeferre. Limbs so long his socked-feet dangle off the edge, but nonetheless, he lies, fast asleep, curled into Enjolras’s chest. There’s an open book hanging from one of Enjolras’s hands that he’s abandoned in favour of carding his fingers through Combeferre’s hair. 

Enjolras looks up at the sound of the door creaking. “Thanks,” he whispers. “You can just drop it by the door, it’s fine.”

“You sure?” he asks.

Enjolras nods, blonde curls dancing in the warm six o’clock light. “Yeah. I’ll be getting up to order food soon anyways.”

“Cool.” He hesitates by the doorway, observing them, the way they seem to melt around each other. The strung out and stressed Combeferre Feuilly had spoken to a few days prior was miles off of this mellowed-out, cozy twenty-one year old currently snoring lightly against his friend’s jumper.

“You’re a really good friend to him, Enjolras. He’s lucky to have someone like you.”

He doesn’t hang around much longer after that, because he seriously does have to get going if he wants any hope of getting some of the pizza Courfeyrac ordered in for the pre-drinks before the real party kicks off. He does catch the look of complete befuddlement on Enjolras’s face as he shuts the door, but he chalks it up to embarrassment, maybe, caught off-guard by the compliment.

“ _Oh!”_ Feuilly exclaims, looking back on it with the benefit of hindsight. 

Beside him, Bahorel takes his beer out of his hand, stealing a sip. Feuilly doesn’t even bother to stop him as he replays the events in his mind. How the fuck did he miss that? 

“Shit,” he says bluntly. 

**iii.**

In all honesty, the third one was almost too cliché to be believable. And considering Enjolras has never professed a romantic bone in his body, it wasn’t the first logical conclusion. 

//

They’re all twelve of them sitting on the sofa, buzzed from the alcohol and full from the pizza. It’s nice like this, just them and food and beer and whatever shitty movie won the vote. It’s Combeferre’s birthday, he’s twenty-two, and he’s about to get his present. 

Enjolras hops up, dusts his hands off of his jeans and clears his throat. “So, as you all know, there’s a fairly longstanding tradition between me and ‘Ferre of going into his favourite bookstore, picking out a book and then spending the day at the cinema until we don’t have any cash left _or_ they throw us out.” It was something they’d started as kids, sneaking into the theatre six or seven times over until they knew the lines by heart. Nearly fifteen years later, and they couldn’t bring themselves to give it up.

“And while I love that tradition, I thought this year I should change it up. So, this is my present to you, ‘Ferre. I hope you like it.”

He moves and goes to fiddle with the projector that’s hooked up to the laptop, where it casts the footage onto the wall.

There’s Combeferre, young, only five or six, running around excitedly. All of a sudden, an elegant slender arm leans downs and wraps around his torso, pulling him closer as he squeals with delight. The camera pulls back and there’s a woman- his mother, it must be, they have the same kind eyes and tall, lean figure- hugging him close and tight. He relaxes into her arms, leans his head against her collarbone right at the jut of her neck, as she tells him he is loved loved loved, so loved. The most loved little boy in the whole world. It’s tender, it’s soft and raw. 

“ _Mommy loves you,”_ She tells him. “ _Mommy always loves you, my Kavi.”_

The present, newly-twenty two Combeferre is sat in silence with a stunned expression on his face as he watches it unfold, remnants of his childhood he’s long forgotten breathed back to life. He sucks in a breath, then, a sudden jolt of life, as the scene changes. His four year old self is now sitting on the lap of a boy only two or three years older than him on a couch that was once white. There’s a book of fairytales open on their laps as the older boy- “ _Kiran_ ,” He gasps- Stumbles over the words aloud, tracing them with his finger. 

“ _Listen, Kavi. Look,”_ He’s instructing. “ _‘The witch's house!” He cried. “Now, children, hold tight._ ’”

The scene changes again in an instant. The film is yellow and aged, grainy footage of two small boys, only seven or eight, one with blonde curls, unmistakably Enjolras, Combeferre beside him with his black mop of ringlets, arms slung around each other’s shoulders and beaming gap-toothed into the lens as a woman’s voice behind the camera tells them ‘ _smile!’._

It starts to speed up as the years of Combeferre’s life flash before them, clips as he blows out candles on a cake to cheers, each time another candle added. Presents are ripped open, cards are read out. There’s one particular scene that stands out- Enjolras, with a puss on his face as his mother attempts to wrangle a party hat over his untamable curls while Combeferre is too busy eating Enjolras’s cake. 

As the clips go faster, they get older and grow taller. Hair that once ran a riot on top of Combeferre’s head is shaved and shorn into something shorter and tighter, while Enjolras’s just gets longer and more unruly. 

There’s an awkward, bespectacled Combeferre, acne taken over most of his cheekbones as he explains chaos theory, leafing through a book. He’s splayed out on a blue bed, legs akimbo, as the sunset turns the white walls from orange to red.

“ _It basically states that, if a butterfly flaps its wings in Mexico, it will cause a hurricane in China_ ,” he explains, voice squeaky and breaking. “ _So like, it might not happen immediately, but if the butterfly hadn’t flapped its wings at just the right point in space or time, the hurricane wouldn’t have happened either.”_

“ _But by that logic, everything that happens has an effect that can’t be undone,”_ A deeper voice that belongs to Enjolras says behind the camera. 

“ _Yes!_ ” Combeferre exclaims, exuberant. His book lies abandoned on the floor as he pushes himself up the bed, eyes lit up. “Exactly. _That’s exactly what this theory states. Look at the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand. One little instance can change humanity forever. Everyone is the architect of some… some momentous event. Worldwide or like, just in someone’s life. So you can be the butterfly, or the hurricane.”_

The two of them screaming on a rollercoaster, the force and speed of the ride whipping their hair into a frenzied sensation, their eyes bright. Combeferre whooping in sheer, unbridled joy and Enjolras letting out a blood-curling scream of pure terror.

Drenched in the scorching sunlight, the two of them and an older version Combeferre’s brother, the boy who’d sat Combeferre in his lap, running down a jetty and flinging themselves into the water below with elated shouts. 

Later that same day, feet dangling off the edge as they sit, content and side by side with towels wrapped around their shoulders and watch the sunset, disappearing into the horizon in a blaze of light. It feels like the first few days of summer, warm and filled with infinite possibilities. 

Combeferre dressed in a sharp suit at a podium, Enjolras almost out of the frame as he and another boy sit at a desk going through flashcards. “ _Good evening adjudicators, time keepers, chairperson, members of the opposition and members of the floor,_ ” Combeferre says confidently. _“My name is Kavi Combeferre, and I am here today to oppose the motion that physical education has no place in our school system.”_

Shakey footage of a party, all dim lights and loud talk. It zooms in on Combeferre and Enjolras, illuminated by the fairy lights strung up above them, the twinkling lights dancing across their skin. They’re not speaking, instead just gazing at each other intently. Combeferre bends, as if to whisper something by Enjolras’s ear and-

Either the camera moved or Enjolras decided to stop it there, because either way the moment ends abruptly as a new one begins. All of a sudden they’re in an open café, bright light streaming through the glass walls around them. Combeferre looks up, slyly, from his coffee. He grins, reaches and-

“ _Aha!”_ The camera is flicked around, landing squarely on Enjolras. Combeferre is laughing behind the lens, zooming in on Enjolras’s scowling face. _“You’re so pretty when you’ve got that sour look on your face.”_

“ _Shut up._ ” The other boy replies, but there’s no bite to it. He leans over to take it back and Combeferre come into view again, smiling fondly into the lens. 

The scene changes again. This time it’s focused on Combeferre’s profile, his ecstatic smile as he speeds through the countryside, driving in his father’s car. “ _Wohoo!”_ The pair of them, both in front and behind the camera laughing wildly, young and free. 

“ _Shit, ‘Ferre, a deer_ -”

The screech of tires is the last muffle sound that can be heard as the camera tumbles out of Enjolras’s hands, jolted when Combeferre slammed on the breaks. 

There’s a sigh. “ _Fuck.”_

The setting shifts again. It’s a park, this time. Combeferre is propped up against a tree, arm behind his neck as his gazes at the sky, books scattered around them. The camera drifts in and out of focus as it tracks the plains of his face, the look of deep contemplation and peace etched into his features. It’s broken by a smile, small and serene but there nonetheless. “ _Look,_ ” He says, pointing towards up something. _“A butterfly._ ” The camera moves to capture the fluttering silhouette against the warm sun. It floats about the air like smoke, light and weightless.The camera moves back to Combeferre, his head turned to Enjolras, squinting against the sun. They stay like that for a few seconds, Combeferre staring unafraid into the lens. _“I think_ ,” He says slowly. _“That you’re the best hurricane that’s ever come into my life.”_

The film stops, then. The screen goes black. The room is silent and still, breaths held and all eyes on Combeferre-

Combeferre, who, after getting over the initial shock, stands suddenly. Real life Combeferre has tears in his eyes, happy tears, and steps towards Enjolras, dragging him in for a hug. “Thank you,” He says, head bent into his collar.

Enjolras holds him, steadfast and sure, and whispers something into Combeferre’s ear. 

It could have been _‘You’re welcome._ ’

Looking back on it now, it also could have been ‘ _I love you.’_

(What it actually was, was _‘I can’t see a life worth living without you.’)_

**Iv.**

As per the usual, the protest goes about as bad as could possibly be without invoking civil war. Five minutes into a speech and there’s already a fist fight erupting on the fringes of the crowd. It only goes downhill from there, the tension being pulled tight and fraught until it snaps. 

Snaps. 

Like the sound of the police baton that came flying down over a man’s head, sharp, cutting through the noise like a bullet from a gun. The way his words got broken off right in the middle of a sentence, cut of by a cry.

The crowd around them stills, looks in shock as the blonde angel crumples to the ground, moaning and clutching his head, blood seeping through his fingers, matting in his radiant curls. 

The audience flinches when his head is crushed into the gravel beneath the boot of an officer, screaming at him to ‘cease and desist, cease and desist or you will be made to do so!’, deaf to the cries of outrage, of horror, or ‘he wasn’t even doing anything!’. 

There’s an utter freeze in reality as they watch this…. _Boy_ is beaten beyond sensibility or good reason, and as the realization dawns that actually, this could be anyone of them. 

‘ _There by the grace of God goes I,’_ they’re thinking. 

It’s not broken until someone is pushing and elbowing their way through the crowd, desperately trying to get through. His voice is ugly and tainted with emotion as he yells ‘Enjolras!’. The police officer, who is young still, who could easily be these boy’s age, has the decency to falter as the young man breaks through the crowd, collapsing on his knees. 

“Stop!” He begs. “He has the right to the freedom of speech, don’t- Enjolras, Enjolras, can you hear me?” His words are rushed, blurred together from a concoction of pure terror and adrenaline. The blonde boy- Enjolras- groans a response, and the taller man breathes a sigh of relief, before turning back to the police officer. “He was peacefully protesting. We have our permits, we explicitly enforced a no-violence policy. What more do you _want_ from us?” He looks older, now, once all the fight has been drained out of him. The sheer exasperation that comes from having been in this situation one time too many ages him, beats him down until he’s left helpless. 

The policeman shifts, uncomfortable, and guilty as he takes his foot off Enjolras’s, which is met with a cry of relief and pain from the man himself. His friend collapses beside him, clutching him. Blood, bright red against his dark skin, is streaked across his cheek as he cradles Enjolras’s face, sobbing in respite. The officer stumbles back, his face hardening. 

“Break this up immediately,” he barks. 

Slowly, the crowds disperses, but murmurs and mutterings follow, fleeting glances of the two boys folding in on one another in the middle of the square.

**V.**

Marius trails absentmindedly behind Cosette, craning his head back to take in the full spectacle of the paintings adorning the walls, letting her light voice wash over him. 

The glass ceiling above them pours in white, bright light that fills in all the negative space in the place. If he walks slowly enough, every now and then Marius can catch one of the rays beaming down and watch the dust specks dance. 

There are Combeferre and Enjolras, standing side by side, heads tilted upwards to ‘ _Achilles lamenting the death of Patroclus.’_ Surrounded by the decadence, the wealth that seeps out of every crack, and the way the sunlight shines down on them and hits them at the right exact angle, illuminating them. The slight furrow in Enjolras’s brow as Combeferre speaks, easy and pointing to various parts of the portraits, they look like old gods. 

(The way that Enjolras seems to melt around Combeferre, the way he drinks up his every word and stares at him like he lights the stars at night, they look like they could almost be in love).

It strikes Marius as he glances over at Cosette, standing at his side and inspecting ‘ _Girl with the pearl earing’_ that they- Cosette and Marius, Enjolras and Combeferre- have almost mirrored each other. He frowns, nudging Cosette gently in the side.

“Look,” he says, nodding over to the two men the other side of the hall. 

They watch in silence as Combeferre turns his head, walking over to the next painting. Enjolras stands there, a faint look of enchantment on his face as he contemplates Combeferre. Marius feels his heart drop to his stomach, because he knows what that feels like. 

“Do you think Combeferre knows that Enjolras might…. _Like_ him?” 

Cosette looks at him as if he’s lost his mind. “Marius, they’ve been best friends since they came out of the womb. I’m sure if there were _anything_ between them, we’d have found out by now.”

“But-”

“If it’s meant to be, it will be. Enjolras is strong enough to deal with his feelings like a big boy.” Cosette smiles at him, tugging his hand. “Come on,” she says, dragging him away. “I still want to see _‘The polish rider’_.”

(They walk away, then. If they had turned back, Marius would have seen Combeferre’s hand, outreached. Could have witnessed Enjolras as he lazily interlinks their fingers, and pressed a kiss to the underside of ‘Ferre’s jaw with the kind of grace and ease that only comes from years of practice.)

**+1**

They walk through the cobbled stone in the park, sun specks beaming down on them in between the coverage of the leaves, their joint hands swinging freely between them. 

“So I’ve been thinking,” Combeferre begins, hesitantly. Enjolras hums, egging him on. “About what Courfeyrac said. His surprise at our relationship has got me considering the future of me and you.”

Enjolras stops, one eyebrow quirked. He’s got the smallest smile on his face but there’s a scared uncertainty in the lines of his face. “Oh?”

Combeferre takes a few more idle steps, until he’s right underneath the large oaktree they usually sit under, trading books back and forth. It’s where all those years ago Combeferre told Enjolras that he was the best thing to ever happen to him. 

“I…” All the hours, _days,_ he spent practicing in front of the mirror, the drafts and rewrites he spammed Courfeyrac with to perfect this exact moment seems to flee his mind as he grapples with the words to convey… the _everything_ that he’s trying to encapsulate. “I can’t stand the thought of someone thinking that I’m hiding our relationship. I’m so proud, Enj. I’m proud to know you, to be your boyfriend. I don’t want the world to think I’m anything less.”

“Okay,” The other man answers placatingly. “So, we’ll… I don’t know, we’ll be more affectionate with each other around the group.”

“I actually had something else in mind, if you’d like to hear it.”

There’s concern in Enjolras’s voice as he agrees, and if it were literally any other moment, Combeferre would laugh at the way his face morphs from confused to realisation to shock.

“ _Fuck,”_ he swears as Combeferre sinks onto one knee, opening the little velvet box that’s been burning a hole in his sock drawer for months. 

“I told you when we were fourteen about the theory of chaos,” he begins, trying to keep his voice steady. “About how a butterfly could flap its wings and cause an earthquake. And I also told you, four years later, that you were the best hurricane that’s ever happened to me. And that continues to be true, but right now, I’d like to invoke the same kind of chaos- and joy- that you’ve given me for sixteen years.”

Enjolras is beaming now, happy tears rolling in fat drops down his cheeks. 

“Enjolras, you are my chief, my best friend and I’ve been in love with you since the moment we met, I think. Even though then, I was mostly concerned with your action figures collection. I thank whatever God there may be for giving me the privilege of loving you. And with your permission, I want our friends, I want everyone who ever meets us, to know how happy it makes me to have that privilege. So, would you do me the honour of marrying me?”

“Yes of _course,_ you absolute sap.” 

(As if he would say anything less than a resounding yes).

Passerby’s smile fondly at the two of them. They coo at the blonde boy being spun around in the arms of his boyfriend (“Fiancé,” One woman whispers conspiratorially to another. “I saw the taller one down on his knee during my last lap.”). Their laughter ricocheted off the trees, brighter than the sun shining high in the sky.

People see the gold band glinting on one man’s finger, watch as wipe away the tears of bliss from each other’s eyes, the soft way they trade kisses in the warm Parisian four o’clock light, and they say to each other “ _They’re in love.”_

**Author's Note:**

> [ come cry with me on tumblr](http://starshideyour-fire.tumblr.com/)


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